The crowd roared
They hadn’t been badly treated by the standards of the Bronze Age; not by the standards of the squalid little farms and the dingy, filthy streets she’d seen, or the monstrous half-built megalithic walls of the palace which meant massive public works being done at the wrong ends of whips. They’d been arrested by soldiers with shields and bronze swords and helmets shaped like colanders. These brown young men in leather kilts had been fascinated by the sight of blond women and unable to resist looking to see if that sort of hair was present elsewhere, but had behaved themselves reasonably well otherwise under the watchful eye of a five-star general in gold armor who wore a helmet made of boars’ tusks. Jerry had become absurdly excited over that helmet— indeed, over the whole procedure— and either he was incredibly brave, or had tremendous faith in the Oracle, or he was just plain crazy.
She could use a shot of gin to take away the taste of the wine. Why the wine, anyway?
Why had the Oracle said that she could help? The ball of twine that Killer had given her had gone with all their other possessions— with rings and rosary and earrings— and, anyway, twine would only be useful for coming back out, which they were supposed not to need to do, if you believed what Killer said the Oracle said.
Maisie hiccuped and giggled and waved to the crowd again.
Ariadne forced her eyes down to look at the Labyrinth and saw the small stone roof in the center, the Minotaur’s pen— one flat slab in the middle of a great expanse of rectangular walls. There was a very low doorway on this side of it, facing towards the royal box, the top of the doorway just visible to her over the top of the first wall in front of it. Even as she first looked, something crawled out of that door and stood up.
The crowd roared…
the Minotaur! A wave of dread and nausea swept over her, and she gripped the bronze railing tightly and fought down a throbbing blackness that threatened to wash her away in that wave. Was that what the wine had been for then, to keep the victims from fainting with terror? A mercy?
She had looked away and now she forced her eyes back to it— just what she had seen in the cottage, except that if it was truly as large as that, then this place was even more huge than she had thought. It was yawning and stretching like a man waking from sleep, except no human being had ever had arms like that, perhaps no gorilla ever had. It was not unlike a gorilla, either, with the thick black hair over the front of its body, its arms and shoulders and chest far out of proportion to the legs. But it would need those shoulders to support the gigantic bull’s head, that bestial black muzzle with the black horns curving upwards and outwards.
Asterios the Minotaur had heard the crowd noise and was emerging to see what was for breakfast.
But where were the men?
They’d been separated that first night in the village and transported in separate carts to the city, thrown into separate dungeons. Ariadne had not seen or spoken to Jerry, Carlo, or Graham for three days. Perhaps they had gone earlier? No, Killer had said three days to eat a body.
She saw bones. The roadways between the innumerable walls were black dirt, and there were bones protruding from it in places. Directly below her— about twenty feet down, maybe— she could see a shattered skull, half-buried in dark slime.
She swung around, turned her back on the Minotaur, and looked at the rows of spectators behind her and the front of the royal box directly above. She could not see the occupants, or if King Minos was present, but she could catch a glimpse of a guard at each front corner, in those strange helmets, like pineapples made of boars’ teeth. A type of helmet described in Homer, Jerry had said, and dug up at some site in Greece— so what? Below the box was the door from the players’ dressing rooms, and there was Jerry, naked as a newborn, with flowers in his hair and two soldiers prodding him on with spears.
He had an all-over tan, she noticed, and his breasts… sorry, sir, pectorals… had been painted yellow to match his hair.
It was foolish to be embarrassed at a time like this, but Ariadne turned around to face the arena again as he emerged from the tunnel, and the crowd roared.
Third victim, ladies and gentlemen, in today’s gala presentation. 5— count them— 5!
It was good to see him again, though. Maisie was all right, but now she wanted male support. Three days with Maisie, trying to make conversation in the semidarkness of a tiny stone cellar, sparsely furnished with straw that was itself well furnished with lice, staring at a rank bucket and the inevitable bowl of beans and jug of water which was all they had been fed— they were fortunate that neither of them had felt any real desire to eat or drink. They had talked of the children and the things they had said or done. Ariadne had rambled on about Lacey’s great future in music, and Maisie had nodded and not truly understood. They had even talked of Graham, and it seemed his sex life was much the same as before, just as insatiable and inconsiderate as ever. But if Maisie enjoyed being a trampoline, that was her business… and perhaps she, herself, had found it flattering or something when she was that age.
Brown-tanned, yellow-breasted, Jerry staggered up and put an arm around her shoulders, then lumbered into the rail, and came to a stop. He looked freshly shaven, oiled, and smelled of poppy as she did, and his yellow hair had been curled. What would Killer say if he could see him now?
“Shgood shee yuh,” he said, with difficulty. Oh no! He was almost too drunk to stand.
“They got you too, did they?” she said angrily.
He tried to focus on her, without much success. “Coarsh! Woodnt tushit. Forshd ush.” His mouth and throat were bruised, so there had been a struggle.
She turned to Maisie in dismay. She had not expected that the men would have been liquored up, also. She herself was happy and slightly dizzy, but the soberest of the three of them. It took a lot more than two goblets of that watery wine to get her sloshed. Jerry was having trouble standing upright. Drunk as a lord; they must have poured gallons into him— why? Just to slow him down? Killer had said it was a sort of national sport, the Minotaur stakes. Why slow the runners?
The Oracle had said that Ariadne could help. Well, she was an alcoholic, and the others were not. She would not be capable of driving a car, but perhaps only she would be capable of doing anything at all. She thought she could probably carry Maisie, or perhaps drag a staggering Jerry, but certainly the others must fend for themselves.
Why this enforced drunkenness? Was it only a kindness or was there some other purpose? Were sober victims a threat to the Minotaur?
The crowd roared.
She turned to look at the tunnel, but there was no sign of the other two. She looked into the Labyrinth and saw the cause of the excitement— the Minotaur was taking a pee. Big deal.
Then came a louder roar, and she turned once more to see Graham reeling out of the tunnel ahead of the guards. The applause was halfhearted; evidently the spectators disapproved of big ones— slow runners? Much to her surprise, she felt sorry for him. His second marriage was doing him no good— he was developing a paunch. He was huge and hairy and the top of his chest was painted black, about the only color they could have used on him. He looked pathetic and rather hideous. He hit the rail beyond Maisie and doubled over. For an instant she thought he was going to topple straight down into the Labyrinth, but he was merely throwing up. That might help, if it got rid of some of the wine.
Poor Graham— the end of a promising career in crooked law. He had at first refused to come on this crazy surrender mission, arguing that it would be better to flee off to the hills, or perhaps to the other side of the island to build a boat. He had declined to remove his twentieth-century clothes until Killer had drawn his dagger; and he had finally come with the rest, bringing the obedient Maisie, only because he had known that the two of them could not survive in the wilds and were better off clutching at the thin straw Killer offered than drowning without it.